


Song of Solomon

by appalachian_fireflies



Series: Clint 'verse [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Aftercare, Daddy Kink, Depression, Dom Phil Coulson, Dom/sub, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Porn, Sub Clint Barton, Subspace, Trans Clint Barton, Trans Male Character, Trust Issues, past CSA
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-08-08
Packaged: 2018-07-22 20:48:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7453468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/appalachian_fireflies/pseuds/appalachian_fireflies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint/Coulson snippets.  Follows Clint's early relationship with Coulson post joining SHIELD through him becoming an Avenger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i mean out of all the books in the bible what could i call the sex chapters in the happ(ier) future but the song of solomon?

Clint’s kissing like he’s trying to win, letting out annoyed huffs when Phil keeps blocking his tongue. Phil smiles against his lips, goes a little slower, presses their naked bodies together. Clint groans like he’s dying. 

It’s been a few weeks of this back and forth game, Clint alternately insisting Phil’s coddling him and trying to torture him while Phil says yet again that he _likes_ to go slow. 

He finally takes pity on Clint and takes his hand off his dick, rubs two fingers against where Clint’s wet, gliding them over where he’s hard for him. 

Clint’s hips jump, and he moans gratifyingly. Phil feels a warm dart of pride. 

“Yeah?” he asks, because the answer’s obvious but what the hell, he’s only human. He likes to hear it. 

“Fucking finally,” Clint replies, bratty as ever. Phil loves it when he talks back, gets bratty, playful. He doesn’t do it with people he’s afraid of, or afraid of disappointing. One and the same with him, really. 

Clint wraps his hand around Phil’s cock, and Phil’s thoughts stutter to a halt. Clint’s hand is a little slick from where he’s been touching himself, and he uses his thumb to swipe down the precum from the tip of Phil’s dick. 

Phil shivers and moves a little closer, pressing hard enough into Clint’s hand that the tip of his dick touches his belly. He slides a finger inside Clint, like they’ve talked about, like he’s seen Clint do to himself, squirming and gasping underneath him while Phil whispers in his ear. 

He doesn’t realize Clint’s checked out right away, because as soon as his finger slides in deep, crooking to press upwards, Clint’s breath catches on a moan. 

“Wait,” he hears, a little strained, and Phil takes his finger out, stops. A dozen thoughts of what he could have done wrong rush through his head. 

“Other hand,” Clint says simply, and Phil looks at him, checking in. 

He’s been using his right hand to finger Clint. The same one he’d been using to touch his dick. Phil gives Clint a kiss, then moves back. 

“I’ve been tested recently,” he says gently, “but I’m happy to do it again. Really.” 

“No,” Clint says, embarrassed. “I mean, I have been too. I can show you, if you want.”

Phil kisses him again. “I just want you to feel safe.” 

“It’s not that,” Clint says, tries to press into the kissing, pick up the pace. 

Phil pulls back. “It’s something,” he says stubbornly, because god knows if he doesn’t push Clint will never say. 

Clint sighs heavily, gives up trying. “You’re making me think too much,” he accuses. “I don’t get this weird about it when I don’t have time to... it’s just, all this,” he gestures. 

“I don’t want you to be worried,” Phil pushes. 

“It’s not STD’s, I already told you,” Clint repeats, frustrated. “I don’t want to get pregnant, ok?” He sits up, scrubs his hands down his thighs. “There, you did it. You freaked me out.” He stands up, practically vibrating. “I gotta go take a shower. I’m sorry, this is fucking embarrassing.” 

“Let me know if you want me,” Phil says, and Clint nods tersely, runs to the shower. 

“Sorry,” Clint says when he emerges, “gotta go home. Just remembered, gotta get Leanne’s groceries next door. Sorry for being a head case, thanks for putting up with me.” 

He kisses Phil, hair still damp, and as good as runs out the door. 

Clint’s been picking up Leanne’s groceries every Tuesday since she tore her ACL. It’s Wednesday. 

Phil spends a few hours that night learning about birth control. He isn’t even sure Clint can get pregnant. The few articles he reads seem to think he can’t. He powers down his computer, looks out at the streetlamps for a bit, just thinking. 

He knows Clint’s holed up, trying to calm himself down. Phil wishes he would come to him; that’s why he’s doing this, trying to build trust, communication. He doesn’t just want some no-strings-attached fucks. 

He doesn’t want to pressure Clint. He wants to leave the door open. One day Clint might walk through; first, though, he needs to know he can walk out.


	2. Chapter 2

Phil has his nose buried in the little hairs at the nape of Clint’s neck, his hand pressing his shoulder down, his dick sliding deep into his ass. Clint moans, turns his head for air, and Phil can see how flush his cheeks are when he pulls out and slowly grinds back in deep. He smiles at Clint’s little choked noise, the way he tugs at Phil’s hand to get his fingers on his dick. 

Phil kisses his neck, sucks a mark low enough that Clint can hide it in the morning, fucks him slow and steady while he whines and shifts. He really does like being fucked as much as he says he does. Phil had thought it’d been all talk; which, to Clint’s credit, even then made Phil want to pin him down and fuck him as soon as they got in the door. 

Then Clint had pushed Phil into a chair, unzipped him, and sucked him off while Phil petted his hair and told him how good he was. When he pulled Clint into his lap to finger him after, he’d been so wet that he slid two fingers right in without even trying. 

Clint’s tugging insistently at his hand, and Phil acquiesces, finger fucking him hard and steady. He can feel Clint clenching around his fingers, trying to come, his ass tight around his dick. 

“You feel so good,” Phil praises, finally speeding up. “Can’t believe how good you are for me, how much you love this. Can you come just from this? If I tell you to?” 

Phil takes his fingers out, smiling at Clint’s protest, slows to where he’s barely moving inside him. 

“Yes,” Clint gasps, “I can, just, please-“ 

Phil presses his fingers back inside him, fucks him so hard he can hear the slick sound of his dick moving inside him, keeps at it as he feels Clint gasp, go so tight it’s almost painful, keeps fucking him through the shivers afterward. He pulls out and comes over Clint’s ass at the last second. 

Clint doesn’t like to feel 'like he’s pissing himself' on the bus home. Still, maybe this time- 

Clint rolls over to lay on his back for a few minutes, catching his breath. Then he gives Phil a kiss and goes to the bathroom. When he comes back he’s fully clothed, and he’s handing Phil a washcloth. 

Phil can’t keep himself from feeling a little hurt and disappointed, but he’d decided that if space was the aftercare Clint needed, he could be ok with that. They get plenty of time to be affectionate otherwise, just not like this, not after sex. 

Clint’s got his thumbs running over the worn sleeves of his hoodie, and he leans down to kiss Phil one more time. Phil sits up, blankets pooling over his lap, and cups Clint’s neck to haul him in closer, make him stay a little longer. He’s not that self-sacrificing; he’ll at least try to be a little selfish. 

The kiss lasts for a long couple minutes, but Clint doesn’t move any closer. Phil finally leans up and wraps an arm around Clint’s waist, playfully tugging him back to bed. He lets him go almost at once. 

“You’re shaking,” he says, dismay coloring his tone in a way he can’t help. “Did I hurt you? Are you-“

Clint waves a hand, dismissive. “It’s fine, just cold. It happened... faster, this time, I think. Gotta get home, take a hot shower, I’ll be fine.” 

Fuck. Phil pulls on his boxers, chases after Clint as he heads toward the door. “Why don’t you come take a bath? You can have the bathroom, and if you get tired you can sleep in the guest bedroom.”

Clint worries at his lip, looking uncomfortable. The thumb fraying his sleeve picks up. “It’s fine, it’s really not a big deal.” 

“Please,” Phil finally pulls his last card. “I feel like a jackass putting you on a bus to Bed-Stuy for 45 minutes in the middle of the night. Just, come take a bath.” He puts on his best pleading expression. “I have bubbles,” he tries. 

Clint raises an eyebrow. “Really?” 

“No,” Phil admits, “I have shampoo, we can use it for bubbles.” 

Clint looks at him for a moment, sighs. “Yeah, alright,” he kicks his shoes back off. 

“I know,” Phil hedges, “you prefer to be alone. And that’s ok, everyone’s aftercare is different. But, if you want me…” he trails off. Clint is squinting at him. 

“Aftercare,” Clint repeats, like Phil just spoke Greek. Phil feels his stomach drop. 

“To keep you from dropping?” Phil tries. “To make sure a, sub and sometimes a dom recovers after a scene?”

Clint’s expression shutters. “I don’t like pain,” he says, and Phil gets the impression they’re having two different conversations. 

“That’s, that’s different,” Phil explains. “You don’t have to be a masochist or a sadist-“

“Boss,” Clint cuts him off, “I’m sure this is important, but I’m fucking freezing.” 

_You’re probably in shock,_ Phil thinks, _because I’m so damn irresponsible that I just assumed I was respecting your boundaries when I let you drop every time we’ve had sex. Fuck._

“I’m sorry,” Phil says, because making this about his feelings right now isn’t going to make it better. Redirecting this to Clint for letting Phil treat him like a tissue he just wadded up and threw away isn’t going to fix it. “Come on,” he says, inviting himself into Clint’s space and hoping like hell he isn’t about to fuck up big time. 

He goes straight to the bathroom, turns on the taps till the water’s just hot enough. “Strip,” he tells Clint, and Clint freezes for a second. Then he complies, stands like he’s waiting for Phil to tell him what to do. 

“Try one foot first,” Phil says. “You might need to adjust.”

Clint puts one foot into the water, slowly eases his body in. He’s been trembling barefoot on the tile, and he’s still shaking while the water’s filling. Phil squirts a little shampoo into the stream of water, letting it bubble up. 

“Lean back,” he instructs, pouring a little shampoo into this hand and working it gently into Clint’s scalp. The shampoo starts to run a little. “Close your eyes,” Coulson says gently. 

Clint obeys almost immediately. Phil cups a little water in his other hand, washes the suds away from Clint’s face. The shaking has calmed down, but Clint still feels a little cold to the touch, despite the heat of the water. 

Phil presses his thumbs down along Clint’s traps, neck into shoulders down to his back, does it again. Runs warm water through his scalp to wash out the shampoo. 

“Good boy,” he says, and Clint frowns, squeezes his eyes tight. 

“I’m not five,” Clint complains, but he doesn’t open his eyes yet. Phil hasn’t told him to. “Just a headcase.”

“Clint,” Phil sighs. He grabs a towel, dries Clint’s face. “Open your eyes, ok?”

Clint opens them, looks down at the water, spins some bubbles between his fingers. “I didn’t want you to see me like this,” he admits. 

“Why?”

Clint sighs, looks up at him, sheepish. “It’s embarrassing, ok? I like you. I’ve already made you deal with too much of my shit.” 

“You warm now?” Phil asks, and Clint nods. Phil pulls the drain. “Stand up,” Phil instructs, and Clint does, stepping out of the tub. Phil dries him off, scrubbing through his hair, down his back, over his arms and legs while Clint lets him. He wraps him in the towel and leads him to the bedroom. 

“Arms up,” Phil instructs, and pulls a shirt on over Clint’s head, then hold out a pair of boxers then sweatpants for him to step into. They’re a little long, pooling at his ankles. He pulls Clint to him, hugs him tight. 

“I’m sorry,” Phil says, pulling away. “I’ve been irresponsible. I assumed you wanted to be alone, not that you were going away because you thought you’d what, make me think you were crazy?”

“You didn’t sign up for this,” Clint replies, stubborn. 

Phil tugs him to sit on the bed. “Can you be honest with me?”

Clint peers at him suspiciously. “Maybe?”

“What is it that you do when you go home?”

Clint looks away. “Do I have to?”

Phil thinks about that for a minute. “You don’t _have_ to do anything. But I’d like it if you told me.” 

Clint sighs like Phil is interrogating him. “I take a shower,” he starts. “It has to be hot. I’m usually cold for a few hours, so I put a sweatshirt on. Socks, usually. I put all the blankets on my bed and get under them. I put the soft one on the bottom, the wool one on top. I,” he stops. 

“Go on,” Phil says gently. He picks up Clint’s hand, squeezes. 

“I usually put the pillow in the dryer while I’m in the shower. You know, so it’s warm.” Clint flushes. “And then I sleep the way I usually do.” 

Curled around the pillow like he’s an octopus suctioned to a particularly cozy rock. 

“I’m a little messed up,” Clint winces. “I know that. I can handle it fine, though.” 

“I know you can,” Phil tugs Clint closer. “I just don’t know why you think you have to.” 

“Cause it’ll freak you out, eventually,” Clint mumbles into Phil’s chest. He doesn’t pull away. “It always does.” 

Phil doesn’t bother saying he’s never freaked out, because he knows it’s not him Clint’s talking about. “Clint,” Phil can’t believe he’s having this conversation, but there you go. “It’s normal to be submissive. There’s nothing wrong with you. There’re a lot of subs out there, and pretty much all of them need aftercare. And I’ve always found submissive men very attractive, so you’re not the first I’ve had.” 

“I’m not _submissive_ ,” Clint says like the word in his mouth is something Phil forced him to eat at a fancy restaurant. 

“Submissive doesn’t mean you’re a pushover,” Phil amends quickly. “Or even passive. Just that you, well, I mean everyone’s different, he struggles. “You like to please other people. You like to be told you’re good.” 

Clint huffs. “I am good.” It sounds tentative. 

Phil kisses the top of his head. “You’re very, very good,” he promises.


	3. Chapter 3

"I think Widow wants to _do things_ with me,” Clint’s voice hisses through the speaker of Phil’s cell phone.

Phil takes a deep breath, rolls over and checks the clock on his nightstand. It’s 3 AM. _The witching hour_ , he hears Clint’s voice in his head, and almost laughs into the phone. 

“What did we say about time zones, sweet boy?” 

“Oh shit, I’m sorry. It’s… 03:00 there, isn’t it? Go back to sleep, boss. Sorry.” 

“I’m up,” Phil counters. “And there’s a reason you forgot, isn’t there? You can still call when something’s important.”

“Right, right,” Clint mumbles, distracted. 

“Clint,” Phil sits up. “Use your words.” 

Clint takes a deep breath. “I think Natasha wants to have sex with me,” he rushes, “she gets bored, you know? And she’s giving me this look, boss, like _wow_ -”

“What are the rules?” Phil cuts him off. 

“As long as I stay safe, and I'm doing it because I want to, I have your permission to sleep with anyone, as long as I tell you later,” Clint recites. 

“Do you want to have sex with her?”

“Hell yeah. I mean, yes. She’s really, uh. She strangled someone with her thighs today, boss. Just sort of whipped her body up around his neck and choked him out. It was,” he swallows. “I mean, it’s messed up for me to say this, probably, but it was really hot. She’s incredible.” 

Phil holds the receiver away from his face, bends over chuckling. He can certainly imagine it. He can easily imagine the look on Clint’s face. “Doesn’t sound like a problem,” he finally manages. 

“But it’s Natasha.” 

That’s fair. This isn’t just someone Clint met in at a party. He works with Natasha, gets paired with her more often than not. They’ve become fast friends, and sometimes Phil drops by Clint’s place in Bed-Stuy to find him and Natasha playing Mario Kart, a box of pizza between them. 

“Same rules still apply, sweetheart,” he affirms. “But you did the right thing calling me when you weren’t sure.” 

Clint lets out a breath, relieved. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he pushes. “It’s not worth that. Nat and I are friends. We can just be friends, without hooking up.” 

“You’re not hurting me,” Phil says, and it’s true. “Have fun.”

“Alright,” Clint says, sounding ecstatic and a little terrified. He gives Phil a wet smack to the receiver. “Thanks for not shooting her. Or me, actually.” 

“Even the very wise cannot see all ends, Mr. Barton,” Phil replies sagely. 

“Did you just. You _nerd_ ,” Clint says, delighted. “I’m gonna suck your dick _so good_ when I get home.” 

He hangs up, and Phil stares at the receiver, laughing.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is a follow-up to Leviticus, and will make more sense with that context, though it can be read alone

“Clint, baby,” a woman’s voice says directly behind him, and Clint’s body language shifts dramatically. Where he’d been relaxed and kicking at Phil’s foot under the diner booth, laughing at his own jokes, he’s now retreating into his hoodie, eyes wide, stance rigid. 

Phil has his best ‘Can I help you’ stare prepared when he turns around, because it can be hard work to get Clint this relaxed. He’s even been teasing a little, which he never does in public- even something as innocuous as a pet name makes him feel too vulnerable unless they’re behind closed doors. 

He opens his mouth, and stops almost immediately at the look on the woman’s face. She looks like she’s about to cry. She, they? She, probably, but it’s hard to say. She has a beard shaved down to stubble, but she’s wearing a long, deep blue dress and a sparkling silver scarf. 

“How did you find me?” Clint asks, small. 

She laughs. “Honey, I don’t know a lot of boys named Hawkeye whose weapon is a purple longbow. I’ve been watching the news. I’m so proud of you.” 

“Yeah?” Clint says, his expression going a little blank. Not good. 

“We’ve been trying to find you for years,” she says, and Clint flinches. She sees it, and she blinks a few times in succession. “We didn’t know. I’m so, so sorry,” she moves closer. “We didn’t know about Malachi. We thought it’d been some shit for brains boy on the road, some guest at one of our stops. If we’d known,” her expression shifts. “We would’ve killed him.” 

Phil feels a chill at her tone. She means it. He has no idea what’s going on. 

“Do you believe me, baby?” she chokes. “I meant it, I would’ve been your mom. You were so easy to love. I would never have let anyone hurt you.” She crouches down. “I failed you. We all did. But I couldn’t let you live thinking we didn’t love you. It’s been so many years, not knowing how to find you and tell you.” 

Clint doesn’t move for a few long breaths, the woman next to him expectant, expression pleading. 

“Phil,” Clint says urgently, eyes settling on him. This is the worst Phil’s ever seen him, worse than when he had to hide under a pile of bodies in Columbia. 

“Miss,” Phil addresses the woman, “can you give Clint your number? We have to leave now, I apologize.” 

“Of course,” she says, wiping her eyes. She tears off a receipt from her pocket and writes it down, folding it into Clint’s hand with a gentle squeeze. He barely reacts, just stares at Phil, waits for her to leave. 

“It’s ok,” Phil says in the softest whisper he can manage. “I’ve got you, you’re safe. We’re going home, ok?” 

Clint nods once, follows Phil to the front where he leaves cash, is quiet the whole way home, holding his hand like he never does in public. 

*

A pile of blankets and half a bag of cinnamon candy labeled “fire” later, Clint’s making his way back to the world, tucked into Phil’s side on his couch. 

“Lady Rainicorn says some dirty shit in Korean,” Clint says to the TV, and Phil kisses the side of his head. 

“Oh, I believe it,” Phil says, watching the cartoon blush and bat her eyelashes on the screen. 

“You can ask me questions,” Clint offers. 

“Ok. Who was that?” Phil asks. 

“The Bearded Lady,” Clint replies. 

“You going to talk to her?” 

“Yeah, probably.” Clint burrows further into Phil’s side. 

“About Malachi?” 

Clint grabs another fire candy. “Not ready to talk about that.” 

“Ok, sweetheart,” Phil says easily. 

*

Clint does talk to her. He asks Phil to come over immediately afterward. Phil’s already there. 

“It was like it happened to a different person, you know?” Clint says absently, pouring coffee into two mugs. “I didn’t even really remember. It’s kind of a funny thing now, adds flavor. Grew up in the circus.” He smiles. “It was nice, until the end.” 

“Tell me,” Phil says, and Clint does. 

Phil cries, and Clint looks surprised, tries to comfort him, tell him “It’s not that bad, really. It’s- don’t cry. I’m fine. Shit happens.” Phil just cries harder and pulls Clint to him, alternating sniffling into his hair and kissing it.

Miracle of miracles, Phil's shirt is damp when he finally pulls away. They mutually agree to spend the entire day ordering in desserts without saying any more about it.


	5. Chapter 5

"I bought an apartment."

Clint doesn’t sound particularly excited, but it’s hard to tell with him over the phone. Sometimes it’s just not an emoting day. “Congratulations,” Phil says.

“Uh, the thing is,” Clint starts, and Phil walks to the bathroom. “It’s actually a lot of apartments. It’s an apartment building. I bought a building. Actually, I bought it a couple weeks ago."

Phil takes off his shoes and turns on the bath.

“Is that the bath?" Clint’s voice comes down the line, chagrined.

“Where is it? How many housewarming gifts should I be bringing?” Phil asks dryly.

“Bed-Stuy,” Clint says quickly, “I know it’s not a great neighborhood, technically, but-“

“You’ve always been more comfortable in Bed-Stuy than you’ll ever be in Manhattan,” Phil cuts off. “I think the location’s a good choice.” 

“Ok,” Clint breathes out. 

“What else?" Phil asks, holding up the phone as he slips into the tub.

“Well,” Clint continues, “I was going to come to your place. Meant to a couple times. Except.”

Phil had wondered, because it’d been a while, but he didn’t want to be too clingy. Clint sometimes got caught up in whatever trouble he’d attracted that particular Tuesday, then spent a couple days waiting for the bruises to stop looking like a horror show so Phil wouldn’t yell at him. "Yes?" Phil prompts.

"I didn’t want to leave Lucky at home,” Clint finishes. 

Phil just puts his cell on speaker and waits. 

“I might have also gotten a dog. Accidentally.” 

“How did you accidentally get a dog in New York City?” Phil asks, not because he doesn’t believe Clint. He’s honestly curious. Spay and neuter laws have been in effect here for a long time. 

“Track suit mafia,” Clint clarifies, which is to say he does nothing to answer Phil’s question. “He was really sad there, boss. You shoulda seen him.” 

Ah. “Sounds like a long story,” Phil leans back. “Why don’t you come here and tell me about it.”

“Ok,” Clint says happily. “Can I-“ 

“Bring the dog.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> purple teddy bear is essieinci's brain child- go read, much recommendation
> 
> For asocialconstruct, who requested more depressed Clint
> 
> i use voice recognition software. please forgive my typos.

The lock for Clint’s apartment always sticks to the right; Phil wiggles his key gently to the left, then to the right again, tumblers protesting as they slide open. His dress shoes aren’t exactly clandestine on the linoleum, but it’s a good challenge.

Clint’s dead to the world, passed out on his favorite purple couch. He’s so deeply asleep that his mouth is hanging slightly open, and Phil smiles fondly. In the right mood, Clint could sleep through Armageddon. And this is certainly the right mood.

Phil hasn’t heard from Clint for a week, calls unanswered, plans rescheduled. There are clothes scattered over every foot of Clint’s apartment, a pile of dishes in the sink, and Phil is pretty sure he can see a fruit fly colony getting cozy in the trashcan.

This, at least, Phil can fix. He starts loading the clothes into a basket to take down to the laundry.

*

For a few heart stopping seconds, Clint isn’t sure where he is. He smells the sharp tang of lemon cleaner, hears a rapid scrubbing noise somewhere off to his left. He’s aware of time passing, but it’s like he’s digging through layers of consciousness. After a minute, he opens his eyes.

“Boss, are you polishing my floor?"

Phil gets up off his knees, throws the sponge into the bucket. “I was, but I -- (couldn't get?) -- damn stain." He puts one hand on his hip and frowns down at it, as if he’s itching to go back at it with the Brillo pad. His t-shirt says _Beauty Queen_ in scrolling white script.

Clint sits up. “I thought I spilled beer on that shirt,” he says, patting his hair down. He can never get the little hairs in the back to stay down after he takes a nap. Someone put a blanket over him; he shrugs it off, and something tumbles to the ground in a flash of purple.

Clint picks it up and places it gently on the couch, squinting. “What is that?”

Phil is saying something, but fuck it if Clint knows what. He stares at his lips, squints harder.

Phil stops, looks politely chagrined. _You want, name it?_ he signs. 

“Hold on,” Clint roots around for his hearing aids. He doesn’t think he can sign _I feel like I’ve entered an alternate reality_ in a way Phil will understand.

“Phil, that stain has been there since I moved in.” He looks around and flushes in shame. “Did you clean my entire apartment?” He stands up, goes over to the sink. It’s a good way to not have to look at Phil. “I was gonna get to it. You didn’t have to.”

Phil brings the bucket of soap over to the sink and dumps it. “I wanted to,” he says simply.

“Thanks,” Clint’s face burns. “This must’ve taken hours. How long was I asleep?”

“Dunno,” Phil wipes his hands on Clint’s athletic shorts, freshly cleaned.

“What’s today?” Clint rubs a hand over his eyes.

“Saturday,” Phil says helpfully. “That ring any bells?”

“Yeah,” Clint says slowly.

Shit. Saturday. They were supposed to go to that class Phil signed up for a month ago. Instead Phil’s here, cleaning his apartment, because Clint’s a slob who can’t get his act together.

“I’m sorry,” Clint says, trying to figure out how he can tunnel to China and never resurface here again. “I didn’t mean to make you miss your thing. Unless you went without me?” Clint says hopefully.

Phil shakes his head. “I ended up not going.”

“Sorry,” Clint starts, and Phil puts a finger on his lips.

“If I really wanted to go, I would’ve gone,” Phil cuts him off. “I wanted to be here.”

“Taking out my trash,” Clint laughs self-deprecatingly.

It’s something they dance around, but don’t talk about. Phil knows Clint gets depressed sometimes; Clint isolates himself and uses every scrap of energy he can to convince everyone there’s nothing wrong. He doesn’t fool anyone, but then again, no one asks questions either.

“Boss,” Clint winces, “I’m sorry, but I don’t think I can do anything today. I think I got the flu or somethin’.”

Phil nods. “Why don’t you go take a shower?” he suggests, opening the fridge. “I’ll make dinner.”

“I don’t have-. Are those vegetables?” Clint marvels.

“Collard greens.” Phil confirms, inspecting the knives in Clint’s drawer. “Lots of vitamins.” He pulls a jar of olive oil out of the kitchen cabinet like a magician.

Clint sniffs his shirt, and immediately pulls it over his head and throws it in the basket. “I owe you.”

Phil shakes his head. “You didn’t ask.”

“It’s my fault you’re not doing what you really want to,” Clint counters. 

“You’re sick. It’s not your fault,” Phil make steady eye contact, and they both know what he’s really talking about.

“You’re right, I stink. I’m gonna take a shower,” Clint announces, and flees the room.

They have stir-fry and watch The Forensic Files on Clint’s couch.

“I’m sure Say Yes to the Dress is playing somewhere,” Phil offers.

“No way,” Clint grabs the remote from him. “I’m about to be right.”

After one episode of The Forensic Files and one episode of Say Yes to the Dress, Clint is out of steam. He’s been inching away from Phil for the past fifteen minutes.

“Boss,” Clint says apologetically, “I’m tired.”

“I know, sweet boy,” Phil says gently, and tugs Clint back over.

Clint looks at him, unsure. He didn’t think they were playing right now. “Phil?”

“Lay down,” Phil instructs, patting his lap. 

Clint goes hesitantly, the TV still droning in the background. Phil’s lap is nice; soft, just the right height for his neck and shoulders. Phil’s fingers stroke lightly through his hair, at first barely there, then light scratches that nearly make his eyes roll to the back of his head. 

“That’s it, sweet boy,” Phil says softly. “All the way under for me.”

Clint thinks he should protest, but he can’t remember why. He feels better than he’s felt for weeks, like something in the back of his brain is perking up after taking the week off and hiding under a rock. He makes a pleased humming sound. 

“Missed you,” Phil says, sighing and relaxing into the couch. 

Clint bunches up the blanket in his arms, and finds the purple stuffed bear from before. He inspects it for a moment, runs his fingers over the soft fur. It looks familiar. 

“I didn’t have the heart to let you throw it out,” Phil comments. “Not after the way you looked at it when you won.” 

That’s right. He won a shooting game in Coney Island. He thought he’d thrown the bear out in Phil’s trash the next day, too ashamed to look at it sitting there in his bedroom. 

“I don’t have any use for it,” Clint mumbles, squeezing one violet paw between his fingers. 

“You can’t sleep unless you’re holding a person or a pillow, and we can’t both fit on this couch,” Phil says reasonably. “And the blanket is supposed to go _over_ your body. I think it’s very practical,” the corner of Phil’s mouth twitches in a smile.

“I could sleep in my bed like a functional adult,” Clint offers.

Phil shakes his head. “I’m not tired. I want to watch Supernanny.” He threads his fingers back through Clint’s hair, runs one delicately around the shell of his ear, making him shiver. 

They both know Clint can’t sleep in a bed for shit when he’s like this, especially one with pillows. Phil hasn’t asked, and Clint hasn’t offered.

“You could do so much better than me,” Clint sighs. “I hope you realize that, one day. And I hope you don’t, you know?”

“I’m right where I want to be. You’ll sleep better without your hearing aids in,” Phil suggests, squeezing his shoulder.

“Pippin,” Clint grunts. “His name’s Pippin.” He takes his hearing aids out, puts them on the coffee table, and curls around the bear. 

“Good choice, sweet boy,” Phil says, and flips channels.


End file.
